Bukhoor - Incense
by ayla.kocak
Summary: Whenever he passed, she could smell incense. When she looked, she never saw him. Canon. Malik/OC
1. Chapter 1: A Prediction of Sorts

Chapter 1: A Prediction of Sorts

Belonging to the Order meant all your possessions were also your brothers' and theirs were yours. Upon the moment of death, possessions transferred from one person to another that very instant. If you had a room in the fortress, a new recruit would be glad to have it. In times of war, everything was temporary, even ownership. This meant unpacking his trunks would not take long; after all, Malik no longer had a need for swords or armor. People would never bother to admire the swordsmanship of a man with one arm. He wondered how much medicine would deflate his pain tonight.

Haroun, the Assassin who accompanied Malik on his journey to Jerusalem, set the last of three trunks on the ground. "Is there anything else you may need,_ Dai_?" he asked. "I can have a woman requested from Masyaf to care for the Bureau if it would please you."

"I do not want a woman in the Bureau," Malik snapped, "There is only so much to clean, and then she will nag me until I throw myself into the Dead Sea."

"I guess this is true," Haroun laughed half-heartedly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It was very hard around the newly-made Dai. Malik lost what little humor he had after his amputation. Usually, any man would agree to a woman's presence, but Haroun felt that perhaps the amputation, combined with grief for Kadar's death, and partial failure of the mission made him feel deficient.

Once on the way to Jerusalem, Malik had mumbled that he should have died in place of Kadar—of course, Haroun was too stunned to respond. What _could_ he say? He was afraid to offend Malik. "I will take my leave now. Peace be upon you, Malik." With nothing less than silence, the Assassin disappeared through the roof hatch.

Malik was alone, enclosed in four dusty, crumbling walls.

Alone as the sun was low in the sky, with silence save for the outdoor ambience and the twin fountains on opposite sides of the rooms, bubbling more water into a tub of algae-infested water. Dusty carpets hung on the walls and bore the symbol of their Creed. The plants sitting in the corner were pale and yellowed from lack of care. This was one room, he realized. Perhaps there was more to the maintenance of this Bureau than he thought.

Suddenly, shrieks of excitement came from next door. He did not understand them immediately, or why the language did not sound familiar. In Masyaf, they taught him Persian, Frankish, and Greek. This one sounded like Persian, but was not. Malik walked directly under the roof hatch and listened carefully to the voices…

"My goodness, you girls have grown!" Hala, the aunt of three Kurdish girls, yelled over their cries of excitement. "I am so happy your father agreed to let you live in Jerusalem!"

Hala was their father's sister. She lived in Jerusalem all her life with her Arab husband Yusuf. They were quite a contrast, the spouses. While Yusuf was tall and lanky, Hala was round and curvy like a melon. Her hair was dark and incredibly curly, but she often hid it behind a black hijab. In spite of the dark head covering, bright colors were favored most by Hala; she wore them every chance she got.

"We missed you so much, _xaltî_! How is Uncle Yusuf? Is he treating you well?" the eldest, a dark-haired beauty named Leyla asked. Hala had noticed Leyla's dark hair had grown down to her hips as a result of her pregnancy. The purple rings around her light brown eyes gave away her lack of sleep, especially since the girls endured a long travel. Her husband left with her father to fight with the Saracens. Not wanting to be alone, she agreed to stay with her aunt and two younger sisters. Her belly was swelling quickly, for she is with child.

The second eldest girl was pulling trunks and bags from the driver's cart. Carelessly tossed at the youngest girl, the second eldest hoped that she would understand that the bags needed carried indoors. Instead, Shelan whipped around to her aunt and asked about the cats. "Do you still have Habibti and Majnoon? I missed them so much—Baba wouldn't let us have any!"

Hala nodded, "We need them to keep the insects and the rats away, so the fabrics stay in good condition in a decent environment." She looked over to the middle child, Kazhal. The girl was frowning at Shelan's inattention but would not say it.

Hala noticed Kazhal trying to get her sister's attention and saw her face contort, miffed, eyes narrowing as her lips pressed into a firm line. Feeling terrible for her, she answered Shelan in a decisive way, "You can see them only after you have helped Kazhal unload your things. Get to it. Leyla, after you finish unpacking join me in the kitchen. I am preparing dinner."

Leyla had her own room. Kazhal and Shelan shared theirs; it had always been that way, but within the year, Kazhal knew it would change. Shelan's suitor lived within the walls of the city, and after she settled here, Auntie would bring him in to pair them together. And she would be the outcast, the unmarried woman.

She thought of this as she dropped her bags on the floor next to her small bed, taking in the room. It needed a little dusting, but there was enough space for both girls to put their things where they'd like. They could even recreate the beautiful area with pillows and rugs on the floor like they had back home. It was where they could pray, dance, talk, or sing.

I need to find a husband soon, before I lose graces with Father, she mused while putting away her things. But where would she look? Perhaps tomorrow she and her little sister could go into the marketplace and look around. Maybe I'll find someone who would like to have me. But what if…? Her heart sank.

Kazhal felt less pretty than the other girls. Before her inflation, Leyla had the body of a Domari dancer. In addition, she was a hafiza, someone who had memorized the Qur'an verbatim. Shelan had big round eyes under thick lashes and black hair to her waist. She was a better singer than the older two. What did Kazhal have? Knowledge? That would not get her far in the pursuit of marriage.

All these thoughts were distracting her. She shook her head and started to sing Besta, a Kurdish song, hoping the others would hear her and follow.

"Oh, my eye, my heart!" She burst loudly. "I want you to be for me alone—"

Downstairs in the kitchen, Leyla answered back, "It is more than two days since I last kissed you, I will make a present of a new dress for the happy feast occasion, my heart is always with you—"

Shelan had entered the bedroom but did not sing. Instead, she covered her mouth and howled, wagging her tongue to add trill, giving a sound of joy to the singer.

"And I hope yours will be with mine always as well!"

Malik looked up from his organization task. The inkpots were in disarray from the last rafiq in the supply room. Just by trying to organize them, Malik broke at least three pots already. When another broke after he accidentally knocked it over, he roared as soon as he heard it fall to pieces on the ground. He swept most of the others to the ground in a blind, uncontrollable rage. Ink splattered the entire floor, including his shoes and the hem of his robes. Tears welled up in his eyes, but being an Assassin, Malik knew he had to regain control or he would never leave this mission alive, even if it was longer than any he's ever had.

Only when he decided to take a break, he heard that strange language again. What was that? It sounded like a tiny tribe lived next door, as if they were Domari. On the other hand, the language wouldn't sound so close to Persian.

Part of him wanted to go next door and introduce himself. Perhaps they would have enough food for him. He was quite hungry but knew little about cooking, let alone had the proper elements to do so. Then Malik recalled that he was still an Assassin, and had to remain seen but unseen. No one could really get to know him or vice versa. He would just have to leave for the marketplace then. Behind the counter were shelves of books on every place within the Levant, one of which contained a small map of Jerusalem, and would give him a way to navigate through the alleyways of the city.

"Kazhal, here's a map of Jerusalem. I need you to go to the marketplace—take Shelan with you, I need more lamb," Hala took a piece of parchment from her vest pocket and handed it to Kazhal. "Both of you need to have something on your heads! This is not Urmia!"

"Yes ma'am," Shelan left for the bedroom and returned with two Kurdish caps for the both of them. They each were both decorated with different colors and small mirrors. Old silver pieces hung from the hem of the caps.

"Be safe; keep your heads down and just go your way. You hear me?" After the girls adjusted the caps on their crowns, Hala swept them into a hug and kissed both of their foreheads. Kazhal and Shelan then left for the streets of Jerusalem.

Kazhal studied the parchment given to her. It was a map, a route to the marketplace. Hala knew she would be able to navigate it best. "We need to go two buildings this way, then three that way," she noted, pointing to the structures specified on the paper. They would now live in the merchant district since Hala and Yusuf were tailors.

Had they been literate in Arabic, they would be able to understand the signs on one of the brick buildings, but could only guess since they all looked alike. Despite the variety of businesses in this district, you could not distinguish them from the outside unless they had windows for customers to look through. And Persian and Arabic were so different. While they could speak most Arabic, the sisters could not read it. Perhaps Hala and Yusuf could show them around the city tomorrow.

She noticed that many of the women here, regardless of their faith, wore some sort of head covering. Perhaps it was good they listened to Hala, for she also noticed the way men stared, automatically thinking of them as foreigners.

Shelan and Kazhal were wearing the clothes of their culture, after all. Long cotton dresses covered pantaloons, sandals barely visible under the hem. Their sleeves came down to the elbows, where trim extended outward in a long trail of sheer, flair material. Coin-layered vests covered the bust of the dress, and typical Kurdish belts of gold studded with small semi-precious stones were cinched at their waists.

Their skin was the same color as the people of Jerusalem, but only Shelan's hair matched theirs. Shelan's hair was a very dark red, and her eyes were a bright green. Kazhal admired the way they sparkled, for they nearly resembled two big emeralds against her golden skin. In contrast, Kazhal was darker in skin, hair, and eyes. It made her feel bland, boring, and average.

At least her hair was wavy. Leyla and Shelan had straight hair, and they always envied the gentle undulations of her natural tresses.

"What's that?" Shelan interrupted Kazhal's thoughts by pointing to a rather large building. "It looks so weird. The top is dome-shaped and the rest looks very square."

Kazhal answered, "I do not know. You can ask one of the city garrisons. They would be able to tell you." On every corner, there stood at least three armed men in heavy chainmail. Since Saladin conquered Jerusalem, the Saracens and the Franks fought over the city, so it was no wonder that many of them would carry weapons on them in case another battle broke out. Because of this, the garrisons frightened Kazhal more than made her feel safe. Before Kazhal could continue walking, Shelan grabbed her arm to stop her.

"I do not know Arabic as well as you do, Kazhal-_jaan_," she only used the Persian word for life when she meant to charm Kazhal into doing something she did not want to do. "You would sound better asking than I would. I would sound foolish."

"Oh, Shelan-_joon_, dear," Kazhal rolled her eyes and kept walking, "Come along. We will find out from Ama Hala. Do you know that word?"

"You gave it away with Hala, silly," Shelan sputtered in Arabic. "That one is easy."

"Exactly. You know the words. You just need practice," a strategy came quickly to the older sister's mind, "Unless you have something you cannot say publicly to me, speak Arabic. If it is private, speak Persian or Kurdi."

"This will be…difficult," Shelan answered slowly. The Arabic was not like the dialect spoken around them but it was fairly comprehensible.

Kazhal teased, "You are difficult."

Just as Shelan shot back a light-hearted insult, a guard a few feet in front of them started shouting. Before him on the ground was a woman, her husband standing next to the guard, freely tossing accusations at her. The wife's eyes were so big, so horrified; she could hardly find the words to defend herself against them. The guard threw open the door, allowing the husband to step in first. Then, just as he was dragging the woman in, he locked eyes with Kazhal as if to mark her as another target, and slammed the door.

"What was that all about?" Shelan whispered to Kazhal, slowing in pace. Her elder sister nudged her a bit, not answering, hoping she would pretend nothing happened like the rest of the citizens. The youngest seemed more curious than scared, but that alone was dangerous. Even though they could see the marketplace, their destination, the journey to it made Kazhal realize that Jerusalem had a frightening side that involved the highest awareness.

"Come on, _joon_," Trying to gather her wits, Kazhal inhaled deeply and let it out in a small huff. "The marketplace is just ahead."

The marketplace bustled with life. Every Jerusalemite in existence seemed to be in this bazaar at this very moment. Spices were down one avenue, clothing and faux silks down the next, and animals in the open space. A man shouted the prices of his livestock and their young. Beside the girls, Domari women danced and played instruments. They saw nothing of the butcher from where they stood, and would hate to kill the lamb themselves. Kazhal didn't want to be rude, so she held a few coins out for the Dom and asked, "Money for directions. A little more for a guide."

The women paused in their mystic snake movements, as the Kurdish girls caught their attentions. One stepped forward, dressed like a typical Jerusalemite in red, save for the bright eyes, black hair and desert skin. She was darker than the earth when rain fell. "You two are not of this land, just like us! No wonder you would ask a Dom for help—no one else would dare make such a mistake around here! Where are you from?"

"We are from Persia. We are Kurdi," Shelan answered proudly in Persian, pausing only when she realized her error. In Arabic she repeated herself. "And there are your kind there as well. You know that."

"Different tribe," the _oud_ player behind her spat, "We are not all the same."

"We treat you the same," Kazhal explained. "And you all call yourselves Dom. So why not? Do not waste our time; the sun is setting as we speak. Help us or resume your begging."

The dancer grimaced and blinked slowly. For a moment she seemed lost in her thoughts, but answered all the same, "Fine." Before Kazhal could react, the dancer grabbed her by the wrist, took the coins from her palm, and proceeded to trace the lines there upon it.

"What are you doing?!" Kazhal pulled back, raising her voice a little louder, but not wanting to make a scene. "Unhand me, Dom!"

The Dom closed her eyes, as if struggling to comprehend. "A lover, close, yet so far."

Someone brushed between Shelan and her older sister. Shelan looked up only to see the back of the man's head. Although uncertain, dark colors stuck in her mind, and the smell of lovely lavender incense heightened her senses.

"Proud but weak. Strong but fragile. You are the same yet different. You will always be at arm's length, but never at both." The dancer opened her eyes and dropped Kazhal's hand.

Kazhal stood there, dumbfounded that she paid for a reading she did not want. And who would this lover be? If anything, it was for Shelan, not her. Irritated and confused, she growled one last time, "And the butcher?"

"Down this way. Take a left after you see the yellow pantaloons being sold by a heavy old woman." The dancer said, pointing to the avenue with clothing. "And the reading was for you, not for the younger of the two. Yours will be a marriage of love, not arranged."

With the message delivered, the Domari women picked up their instruments and made to leave the bazaar. Kazhal called for them to wait, but they ignored her.

"How unusual…it was as if he was standing right here the very moment she said it," Shelan mumbled in Persian.

"It is but a trick, Shelan-_joon_," Kazhal said through gritted teeth, and started down the clothing avenue toward the butcher for the very last minute lamb her aunt desired.

Shelan and Kazhal did not speak of it again until it was far into the night. The candles in their room had been blown out, prayers were said, and they lied in bed, thinking the same thing.

"He smelled of incense, sister." Shelan whispered. "Strong but good incense. The kind you could meditate to."

Kazhal sighed, "I do not want to hear of this passing figure you smelled in the bazaar. He was just some man. And plenty of them use incense, and plenty of them smell like such!"

"Stop being so sour! What if there is truth to this prediction? You do not know. Hala would be so happy—no, Father would be happy! Imagine how proud he would be, coming back from war to three wed daughters? We could all have rambunctious little boys bouncing in our laps, and he would finally consider us mature! You know how he calls us his troublemakers…"

"How do you know Father will come back from the war?" Kazhal retorted, "War is war. People will die. Inshallah, Allah willing, he will return to us and the same for Leyla's husband Rahim." She turned over on her bed and drew the sheets to her shoulders. Across the room, she heard Shelan whisper a night prayer to Allah.

Their father Nehroz was a stern, temperamental man. For as long as Leyla said she could remember, he has always been that way—well, except before Shelan's birth. Nehroz and their mother Bihar were out one night while she was carrying Shelan; a band of thieves suddenly assaulted them. They were able to escape, but the event was so traumatic that Bihar did not survive Shelan's birth. Shelan grew up perfectly healthy, as did her two elder sisters. Nehroz became stone cold, and decided to join the army to fight, as did Leyla's husband. Although Kazhal did not want to hope for the worst, she felt that one day a Saracen would come to the door with terrible news.

She tossed repeatedly at the unsettling thought.

Finally, Kazhal gave a deep sigh, and uttered a bedtime prayer. "O Allah, please do not make me feel secure against Your plans, do not make me forget remembrance of You, and do not include me with the inattentive ones. I may wake up before sunrise."

FOOTNOTES:

Kazhal and her family are Kurdish. The Kurdish are considered an Iranian group, but they are not limited to Iran. In fact, Kazhal comes from Iraq. They have their own culture and rules, and the ones that are Muslim are sometimes culturally Muslim, meaning they do believe in Islam but do not apply it to all facets of their life.

Kazhal and her family speak Persian, Arabic, and Kurdi. This may not have been uncommon back in that time; it is believed that the Quran is best read and known in Arabic, the language of the Prophet (Praise be upon him).

Some words in the chapter include _jaan _and _joon, _which are terms of endearment in Persian._ Xalti _is the Kurdish word for Aunt.

The Domari are one of two main branches of Gypsy. The Rom/Romany are the European Gypsies, the Dom/Domari are the Eastern Gypsies. The Domari are called different things in different areas, like Zott, Nawari, et cetera. I keep it limited to Dom, and try not to use Bedu or Bedouin, as to not confuse the Dom with the nomadic Bedouin.

Please review and subscribe! Let me know if you liked it! My beta SpookieKitten spent a lot of time helping me edit this, so I'm sure she'll appreciate it as well!


	2. Chapter 2: The Smell of Fear

**Chapter 2: The Smell of Fear**

* * *

Malik woke with mute senses. All he could feel were spikes of pain shooting up the stump where his arm used to be**.**Instantly he sprang into action, hunting down the bag of hashish given to him by the doctors in Masyaf to keep the pain hidden. Suddenly he remembered he spent the night in the supply room; perhaps it was in there. But could he reach it, with all the agony concentrated in his upper body? Malik could hardly get up.

He quickly teetered into the hallway, only to fall on his bad arm. Malik let out a cry of anguish and frustration. Stars shot up in front of his eyes. Tears sat on the brim of his lower lashes. He would crawl if he had to—a shadow moved down the hall.

A knock sounded from the roof hatch. "Dai? Have you risen?"

"Brother!" Malik screamed. "Come through the door in the alleyway!"

Silently, the shadow moved yet again. A door opened, and down the hallway where Malik lied helpless came Munzir, one of the new recruits. To be incapacitated on the floor in front of a novice was rather embarrassing, but Malik realized he would _have_to stomach it, and tell the recruit where the hash was instead. "In the supply closet…" he choked, "Hashish…for my arm…"

Munzir pushed back his hood and entered the dim room without so much as lighting a candle. Blind, he hurriedly fumbled around to find the pouch the Dai sought. Eventually a bag made of hemp brushed his palm. He snatched it and ran back down to Malik.

The Dai had managed to sit up in the meantime. The recruit offered the hemp bag to him; he dove into it, threw hash into his mouth and laid back. It took but a few minutes for the pinch to work its magic. The stabbing sensations were silenced. "Good morning, Dai. Or at least I hope it will get better."

"Good morning, Munzir." Malik blinked, "What do you seek?"

"There is a man I am meant to kill here. I know you have been a Dai for only a day, yet Al Mualim requests I receive a feather from you to prove my kill."

"A recruit, killing?"

"We lost a lot of men to the invasion last month, sir," Munzir said sheepishly, hoping it would not cause any reprimanding. He thought it best to change subject. "Have you seen your new neighbors?"

"I don't have the time or the desire," Malik answered with a knitted brow. He finally rose to his feet and padded over to the map room, anxious to start working; he refused to be reminded of the outside world. "Don't you have something to do? A mission?"

"Uh, yes sir. I'll take my leave, then." There was nothing to be done, as far as he knew, but clearly his presence was unwanted.

He only wanted to share his fascination with Malik's Kurdish neighbors because he was Kurdish. How long had it been since he had spoken with some of his own? As he crawled out of the roof hatch, Munzir concluded that his childhood memories were the only ones that held the words and songs of his homeland.

Kazhal woke before sunrise for _Fajr_, a prayer to Allah at dawn. Only she and Leyla would do the five daily prayers; Shelan and the others always preferred sleep over Fajr. She threw back her covers just as the call to prayer started, racing to her prayer rug to prostrate in the direction of Mecca. She thanked Allah for his merciful ways, for a new day, and a pleasant sleep. After a few minutes, the lyrical passages of the Qur'an ceased, and _azaan _was over.

When Kazhal made her way downstairs shortly after, the smell of tea took her olfactory senses. In the small wooden kitchen sat Leyla at the even tinier wooden table. Her older sister pushed with her fingers the cup meant for Kazhal this morning.

"_Beyaní baş_—good morning, little sister." Leyla's braid from yesterday was partly undone, and her eyes were puffy from little sleep. "The baby kept me up," she said before Kazhal could ask.

"They usually say boys cause the most trouble. Perhaps I will not have a little girl to spoil."

"You can still spoil a boy."

Leyla paused, and then smiled. "That is true."

After sunrise, the house slowly awoke. First it was Hala, then Shelan, and surprisingly Yusuf was last. He had returned during the night from Damascus, and was quite weary from travel. He was a tall but skinny man, a stark contrast to round little Hala.

Yusuf's hairline was slowly receding, which gave him a look to match his consistent worry. He was a meticulous and diligent man. He came down the stairs in loose trousers_, sirwal_, and a _thawb_, a long robe over them.

"Good morning girls. I apologize for not being home to receive you yesterday. I came home rather late in the night."

"We understand," Shelan yawned. "How was business in Damascus? Who was the customer?"

"Quite profitable," answered Yusuf. "The man's name is Tamir. No last name, it seems, but he is quite famous around Damascus. He was ready to celebrate a success with some new clothes. I took his measurements, he paid me, and I returned home. He wants the clothes finished within two weeks and delivered, however."

"Two weeks?! There's no way!" Hala cried. "We need fabric! We need thread! Most of the needles are old and broken!"

"Why don't we all go to the marketplace then?" Everyone looked at the person who made the suggestion, being Kazhal. They stared wide-eyed at such a response, as if she had said the impossible, but she continued anyway. "It would help to know what Jerusalem is like. You could give us a small tour, and we would then know the way you take to the marketplace. Shelan and I went yesterday and found it difficult to navigate. We cannot read Arabic."

The memory of the guard yesterday flitted through her mind. How he looked at her, how he handled that woman…He enjoyed exerting his authority too much, in her opinion. The guard was a dog that needed to be leashed or killed.

"Not to mention," Leyla added, "we all know how to sew. Our neighbors were an elderly pair of sisters that enjoyed all sorts of needlework. Kazhal can pick and sew the fabrics very well. I know detailing, and so does Shelan."

Yusuf raised his whitening brows in surprise. "Then it is settled! We'll go through Jerusalem as soon as everyone eats and dresses!"

The girls were dressed in what they brought—more Kurdish dresses with vests, caps, belts and pantaloons. They each wore a different fabric and color, but did not look too lavish as to attract the wrong kind of attention. Hala, though Kurdish as well, could be mistaken for a typical Arab woman, wearing _jilbab_ outdoors, walking with Yusuf as his dutiful wife.

They passed the barber, a man with the perfect beard length and shape. His eyebrows, in contrast, met in the middle like inseparable lovers. On the other side was an herbalist, an exotic yellow-skinned man with long, all-white hair from the Far East. He asked if Yusuf wanted more of the love potion, to which both he and his wife blushed and sputtered for answers. The girls only laughed at the comical scene and teased the couple.

"That building right there is an important one to the Christians," Hala said to the girls as they passed it. It was the same building Kazhal and Shelan saw yesterday; a square, brick edifice, save for the round domed top. "It's called the Church of the Holy Sepulchre."

"We were wondering that yesterday!" Shelan exclaimed, cheerful she did not have to ask a guard after the incident the day before.

Yusuf nodded, "This is the Christian Quarter. You cannot really tell, however. For the time, the Christians have been watched carefully, in case any are spies for the Franks."

Kazhal, confused, recalled the sights of yesterday. Nearly all the women she saw were dressed in Islamic attire. Black _abaya_and _jilbab_dragged on the ground all over this Quarter. Christians were not required to be fully clothed. Then again, she mused, neither were the Muslims. It was all left to interpretation though, and it was better to fit in than to stand out, especially as a woman. Perhaps her sisters and she should buy some clothes to blend…

She looked to her beautiful crimson dress, feeling the white pantaloons colliding against each other with every step. Even her sheer white vest, simple but elegant in design, made her feel more Kurdish than the blood in her veins ever could. She would hate to trade her beautiful colors for a black curtain. "Then why do the Christians dress like us?"

"Like…Muslims?" Yusuf shrugged, keeping his face mute. Kazhal watched his eyes shift left and right as his voice lowered, "It's not best to ask these questions. Especially at this point in time."

There were not any guards in the transitional area between Middle and Rich Districts. In fact, an increasing number of men donning heavy mail, square shields, halberds, swords, and other weapons now stood vigilant. The path Shelan and Kazhal took yesterday did not seem as fear-inducing; perhaps they had gone when the guards were changing shifts?

Kazhal rubbed her hands on her dress, leaving faint stains of sweat where skin contacted the gauze-like fabric. _'Allah, please protect me. I am your servant. Lead me to my destination._'

Having passed into the Muslim Quarter, the family could see the Dome of the Rock, high over Jerusalem, boasting its glory with its gold-domed, blue and white geometric rotunda. Kazhal remembered hearing stories of this beautiful Islamic shrine. This was the place from which the Prophet Muhammad –Kazhal uttered a blessing for him as he entered her thoughts—had made his Night's Journey and then ascended to Heaven.

Were it any other day, Kazhal would beg to go. She wished to pray within its beauty, ultimately Allah's beauty, but sadly it seemed that the further they traversed into the Muslim Quarter, even more of the special guards vigilantly stood, waiting for trouble to ensue in the streets they sought to control.

Yusuf announced the upcoming souk, calling it the Cotton Merchant's Market. They were approaching an open-aired stone building with vaulted ceilings. No animals or Domari seemed to inhabit or work at this market. Hijab of many colors surrounded an elderly woman on one side. On another, toys for little children were sold in hues just as bright. Bracelets, necklaces, jewelry and accessories of every nature were everywhere. This was not the same market from yesterday, concluded the younger girls.

"Is there a chair anywhere?" Leyla asked, sweating and puffing. Sweat soaked the edges of the hijab touching her face.

She had not spoken the entire tour, which bothered Kazhal. Perhaps there was something wrong? Oh yes, she remembered, her sister had also walked the entire way! She should not be out like this.

Kazhal clucked her tongue, "What made you think you were well enough to come out? And wearing a heavy hijab! Of course you'll sweat an ocean! Hold on…"

Yusuf and Hala were ahead of the trio, attempting to work a deal with a young, aggressive merchant for some beautiful red damask, a woven material of silk, wool, or sometimes linen. They were just about to hand over a few pieces of silver.

Shelan beckoned Hala's attention by whistling, and quickly enough for Kazhal to yell in Kurdish, "She is about to keel over. Please find a place for her to rest—I will carry Uncle's fabrics home!"

Hala grasped Leyla's shoulder and nudged her to the old woman selling tribal jewelry from the East. "Come, my child, let us sit you over here…"

Kazhal looked to her uncle, who stared back questioningly. "Leyla," was all she had to say, approaching Yusuf and taking from him the beautiful bolt of damask. "Are we buying anymore?"

"Perhaps we should buy some cotton or more linen for your sister over there," he chuckled. "The weather warms quickly here. I wish she would have thought of that before she joined us."

"Probably did not want to be home alone."

As they moved along the avenue of fabric, Kazhal found more bolts of cloth she wished to buy. The variety of fabrics was impeccable—thick and thin, bright and dull, gauzy and woven. Her hands wandered between fabrics, grabbing here and pulling there, a smile plastered to her face.

The only interruptions were the bolts Yusuf piled into her hands. She could only carry so much before they started to block her field of vision. "Uncle! Where are you?"

There was no reply. She turned around to look for Hala and her sisters, but did not see them either. How could they disappear so quickly?

It was as if people suddenly and densely populated Souk Al-Qattanin. Every face she saw never came close to matching Shelan's or Leyla's. Kazhal bumped at least five people, each of which called her names for doing so.

The sixth person shoved her back, causing her to gasp. Her heart pounded. Kazhal scanned the crowds again, another time, and one last time in hopes to find Kurdish clothes among a sea of women in black and men in white.

She cut through the crowd, this time running to elderly Eastern woman that sold tribal jewelry. "Excuse me, ma'am! The pregnant woman that was just here, where did she go?" The old woman simply shrugged, and returned to what she was doing.

Nothing. At this point, she didn't care. The girl was lost, and if she couldn't find her family, she needed to find her way home. Even if it meant doing it alone.

She passed the Dome of the Rock, staring yet again and wishing again to see the inside. After that, her eyes pasted themselves to the ground before her, hoping to blend despite her foreign appearance.

This lasted for five minutes—the road led straight to the Christian Quarter, thereafter it would become confusing. Whispers surrounded her on all sides. _Why is she dressed like that? Where is her head scarf? What is that coin cap on her head? Is she Jewish? She doesn't even look Arab._

'_I know_,' She replied to them all in her head. For once, Kazhal felt awkward about her culture. She did not want it to get her into trouble she could not afford.

"Hey, girl!" someone called behind her.

Well, speak of the Devil and He shall appear, as the Christians say.

Kazhal stopped, bolts in both arms, and looked to the man asking for her attention. She stared at his chest armor instead of his face, showing some form of modesty.

"Yes sir," her tone was low and quiet, a great contrast to her restless heart. "Is something wrong?"

"Why don't you take to hijab, like the rest of the women?"

"Where I am from, sir," she answered slowly, "Not all of us have to. So long as we are modest in some way. Hijab is not the only way. I am Kurdish, not an Arab. We have different practices. Perhaps you would know that, having invaded parts of Kurdistan already."

Her eyes tore from his chest plate to his face. They were serious, adamant. But the guard would not think so, she realized. _His_eyes, after all, marked her as a target yesterday. _Yesterday…_

As soon as her mind flashed to the horrified face of the begging, innocent wife, Kazhal felt leather contact her cheek. Stars clouded her vision as she hit the ground.

"Boys, we have a smart ass woman here! Maybe I should teach her some respect!" The guard glanced around for the approval of the others, then back to where the stricken girl should have been. But she wasn't there.

Kazhal had scrambled up as soon as her vision cleared and hit the ground running, leaving the bolts to fend for themselves. She did not bother to look back and risk falling; instead, the girl zigzagged through the slow-moving crowds, heart-racing as she flew. If something looked familiar, Kazhal would turn toward it.

She saw the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and knew to turn right, for the herbalist and the barber would appear soon. However, guards alerted other sentries to search for the girl. Everywhere Kazhal ran, they spotted her. Doors closed around her, not wanting her trouble. The roads emptied to keep from further angering the men. Breath escaped her but she kept going.

"You almost got her! Hurry! Closer! _Closseerrrr!_" They yelled.

Kazhal could hear footsteps and the clanking of armor growing louder, closer, and escape started to seem futile.

The woman again flashed in her mind. She would not become her. Adrenaline flooded her system once more.

Without thought, she turned down an alleyway, and another. Kazhal ran faster, dodging the guards' hungry, abusive hands.

But suddenly, there was no outlet of this one.

Kazhal stopped, trapped. The guards stood before her, all smirking for they have won the chase. Their little rabbit had run into a hole with no other way out. "You seem to remember what I did yesterday," the wicked sentinel chuckled. "That's good. Because that is what is going to happen to you."

Someone whistled, and when they did, Kazhal was grabbed from behind. The hand covered her eyes; she screamed at the top of her lungs. The guards were shouting as well, guttural cries of agony.

Then, it was quiet. A hand released her face; a gust of air hit her dress as a door closed behind her.

* * *

**Hello again! It's me! I have footnotes for you, so you stay in touch with the story!**

**1. Jilbab – If you know what an abaya is, it is meant to cover your figure in such a way that keeps you modest. It's typically loose, and most of the time it's black—if I understand correctly. I'm sure you can get colors if you really wanted to, though. If I am wrong I would sincerely enjoy someone better explaining this to me! Anyway, a jilbab is almost like an abaya in the sense that it covers you from head to toe, whereas an abaya covers you from the shoulders down and you wear a hijab with it.**

**2. Speaking of hijab, it is mentioned to Kazhal, "Why do you not take to hijab?" **

**Hijab is not specifically a headscarf! Hijab refers to covering yourself, but not any explicit area. So, to take to hijab is to take to covering up.**

**4. Religions and the Kurds – many Kurds follow the religions surrounding them. There are Christian, Jewish, Yezidi/(Kurdish Monotheistic religion), and Muslim Kurds. Typically, Muslim Kurds are more nominal Muslims—they believe in the Quran but they tend to follow their own culture rules. They may cover their hair if they like, or simply follow traditional Kurdish dress. It depends on the area, the family, and the traditions.**

**5. I would also like to mention that Kazhal is Kurdish, and the Kurds are considered an Iranic people. Thus, she is not Arab in heritage but Persian, more or less. It depends on who you talk to. **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please make sure to review. **** I love to hear feedback.**


	3. Chapter 3: Mahram

**Chapter 3: Mahram**

* * *

Yusuf was the first to notice one of his family members was not present. "Where is Kazhal?"

"I…I have no idea," Hala finally answered, scanning the crowds. "She was just here."

Suddenly, the city bell rang, alarming the citizens that the roads had become dangerous. Nearby, there were men shouting and people scrambling out of the way. The garrison in the souk immediately ran into the action, hoping to extinguish the danger as quickly as possible.

"We need to leave right now. Come, there are back ways to avoid the panic." Yusuf grabbed Shelan's hand and led her behind Leyla and Hala.

They waited a few hours for the alarm in Jerusalem to subside; it felt like years without Kazhal, however. Leyla would groan every now and again, the illness from the baby clashing with her stress over Kazhal's sudden absence. "Yusuf, _amu_, can you please go out and find her? She is out there somewhere, very alone and afraid. Something could happen to her, and we would not know."

An older man than their father, he was growing white hair and showing years in the wrinkles of his skin. For him to be out would add to the alarm in his household, he realized. Helplessly, he shrugged. "We must wait. _Insha'Allah_, she will be okay."

It was quiet. The door had slammed shut behind her and she was left, covered in blood spatters (this is the proper word as I have learned in Forensic Science class), surrounded by corpses. Perhaps this was a sign by Allah that she was safe in His city. Kazhal now had the clearance she needed to leave the alley, cross the street and run home. Before leaving the alley, she checked around the corners, finding nothing but confused soldiers searching hay bales and crowds for her. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she tried to calmly step out and saunter across, so as to not draw attention to herself. Now, Kazhal was two houses away. When she made it to the door, she rushed in, slammed the door, hiked up the stairs and locked her door.

Eventually, Shelan knocked on the door and in a raspy voice, called to her older sister in Kurdish, "Kazhal? _To chon ye? _Are you okay?"

Shelan heard nothing, so she entered the room. All the windows were hidden behind heavy, dark drapes, and made it difficult to see Kazhal, curled in a ball under her blanket. She was sobbing softly, something rare despite how easily frazzled her sister became. Before climbing into the bed with her, Shelan lifted her dress so she wouldn't step on it, and scooted as close as she could to Kazhal. Her fingers fell into the other's curly tresses and brushed against her scalp, Kazhal's favorite way to relax. "What happened? We couldn't find you."

Kazhal hesitated to turn over. "Oh, it was awful. I do not wish to describe it to you."

"We were terrified," Shelan continued, "the sirens of the city went off. Guards were everywhere, looking for a criminal! Wait a second…were they looking for you?" She gasped as the elder nodded, rubbing her eyes as she finally turned over. The right half of Kazhal's face was purple, bruised. "My…goodness! What happened?!"

"It doesn't matter," Kazhal sniffed, still wiping her eyes, "the guard from yesterday…someone saved me, but they killed him. I am grateful for my life, but it was terrifying! All the bodies lying there…"

"That happened two houses across the street! Was that it?"

Instead of answer there was a groan. "Oh, Shelan, this place is horrible. I regret moving here and it has only been two days! What if the city comes after me?! I did not do it, how could I? I will not move from this bed until the next full moon!"

No words came easy to Shelan. What could be said? Had she been in the same situation, she would not know what to do, how to grieve. Shelan could not help but to babble. "…Y-you know what you need? A bath. And some prayer. Would you go to _hammam _with me? I promise you'll be safe—think about it, what kind of woman could take a few guards, let alone one? It is like you said, so do not worry. Forget it all."

"I refuse to leave this room," was Kazhal's adamant reply in between her sobbing. "Please leave me be, Shelan."

Shelan had failed in cheering her sister up. _Perhaps it would take a couple of days for Kazhal to feel better, _she thought. Before leaving the room, she planted a small kiss on her older sister's crown and said a little prayer in her head, hoping for the best for Kazhal. In the meantime, the others would want to know what happened to her. Shelan would wait until she went with Leyla and Hala to the baths to release the news.

The smell of incense wafted out and permeated through the street outside the Bureau. Malik, sedated by the hashish, wanted to do anything but cartography that evening. He went out to the courtyard, which was bare and fruitless under the rising full moon. The original Dai had neglected his duties as far as the garden was concerned. There, he could have grown citrus fruits, maybe even some prickly pears. After all, most of the Assassins would enjoy ripe, juicy fruits during the dry heat of daytime, or even in the cooling night.

In one corner, practice dummies slept in a bed of shriveled rose bushes. Once, the flowers tried to crawl over and consume the dummies, but to no avail. Glimmering in the moonlight in another corner were empty, dirty inkpots that had been discarded near a young almond tree whose time came too quickly from lack of care; blossoms that should have arrived at this time of year were nonexistent. He moaned. Perhaps he could get to it tomorrow, if he was in the mood.

Kurdish words echoed over the walls as the new neighbors passed by; concern and worry filled the tones of the speakers, all women, as they returned to their house from the baths. Perhaps it had something to do with the alarm in the city today that Munzir told him about.

He had seen his neighbors once in person a few days ago. Two of them, probably sisters, were getting their fortunes read by the Domari that often frequented one of the markets. Part of him wished to stop and engage in conversation, ask about their journey here—the other half, however, was ruled by the new found fear of socializing with the outside world, thanks to his arm.

_I do not want a wife to nag me to death_. Before that fateful mission with Altaïr, Malik had always spoken to young Kadar about his dreams. He could envision it in the back of his head.

* * *

_The sun was setting on Masyaf. The Al-Sayf brothers sat atop the old wall protecting the fortress from invaders. Kadar laughed whenever Malik brought up his dreams about replacing Al Mualim one day. "The Teacher will never die—look how old he is now! He's had five wives in his lifetime. How many will you have before you become the next Teacher?" _

"_I only want one," Malik smiled, a faint redness growing on his cheeks. "And I want her to be beautiful—"_

"_Doesn't every man," Kadar shot back jokingly._

"_No, I don't want a wife like the ones in the Garden. I want one whose eyes light up every time she sees me. Who serves a great meal and can rub my neck when it gets sore. Long hair, wonderful smile. I'll be old and grey, but she will still look young and radiant, as if the sun does not rise and set every day…_Insha'Allah_…" _

_Kadar reclined on his elbows, looking at his brother's awe-filled expression. He couldn't help to smile at the sap, a true romantic at heart. "Well, I want a woman who's not afraid to stand up to me…now that's a woman right there. Fiery, but a woman nonetheless._"

"_Then marry one of the Sisters. I hear they are still quite feminine…save for the swords and all."_

"_The truth is I've been…visiting Safwa in her chambers at night. She really likes me." _

_Safwa was the striking young Sister known for her abilities as an Intelligence agent. She was, by no means, a chaste, innocent woman. None of the Sisters were. But they made up for it with skill. They did not suit Malik's preferences, but he definitely admired them._

"_I hope you find a girl that likes you as much as Safwa likes me. It is the best feeling in the world."_

* * *

After bribing the city guards to stop looking for the girl, Munzir returned after midnight, coming through the hatch solely illuminated by the tiny lanterns in the fountain room. Waiting for him there was the Dai, sleeping, muttering about his late brother.

Bending down to the slumped over Dai, he gently shook Malik's remaining arm. "Dai…this is not your bed."

Malik bolted up with a jolt, eyes wide and centered on Munzir. Eventually, he regained his typical composure, and remembered why he fell asleep there in the first place. "The alarm in the city…what happened?"

The novice took a seat adjacent to Malik on a few pillows and rested his head on the wall near the hem of the Order's banner, blood red in all forms of light. "From what I heard, a girl was able to kill off a few heavily armed guards."

"There's no way in hell," Malik snapped, "What did you do? We are Assassins, we are supposed to remain hidden—if she was a problem to the guards, it is no concern of ours. Let me guess, one of your Kurds, yes? Leave them be. Interfere with them again and I'll send you back to Masyaf on a sword."

After a long impregnable silence, Munzir rose to his feet, bowed to the Dai and left for his room.

Malik did not understand why he had been so harsh. Was he married to the Creed? Perhaps he was, but Munzir had saved an innocent, that much Malik knew. Nevertheless, he gave Munzir an order, and it would be unwise of him to renege it.

* * *

Kazhal spent the next week in her room. Leyla checked on her daily while Shelan helped Yusuf ready the costumes for his Damascene client. Hala ran the errands and went to the market.

Leyla offered a mother's comfort where there was none. Granted, Hala was their aunt, but she was often uncomfortable giving that sort of attention to them. That and they had only been there for a few days. Leyla knew when to bring tea for Kazhal, when to care for the purple bruise on her face and how to coax Kazhal out from behind her dazed expression. "Does it hurt less today?"

Kazhal nodded absently, gripping a cup of afternoon tea as she stared out the open window. "Has the city forgotten?"

"Quite fast, it seems," Leyla sat on Shelan's bed after she set the cup on the floor next to her foot. For a second, she peered down at her full, round belly, thinking of the wonderful gift inside. Leyla knew that any time now the baby would want to come into the world. Some names crossed her mind every now and again, but her choices made, she would name the baby after one of her parents. "The baby is getting ready. I'll be a mother soon."

"And I will be a _xaltî_, an aunt," For the first time in a week, Kazhal smiled. "I hope I get to be a mother myself one day. I just have to find the man worth marrying."

Leyla grinned. This was unlike Kazhal. Before, she wished to stay unmarried with her sisters until the day she died. Now she was speaking of being a mother, having kids, and a man worth marrying. "This is unusual of you. Why the change of heart?"

Kazhal's eyes followed the birds outside her window down the streets of the Muslim Quarter. She espied a small building with a lattice covered parlor and a large courtyard. Out there, two men worked to clear weeds from a thick, blooming rose bush.

Jerusalem was her home now, and if she was going to safely and comfortably live here, it would be with a husband. It is not something she looked forward to, but would do to ensure that nothing would harm her ever again.

The corpses of the guards and the accused wife flashed to mind again. They invaded her dreams each night and during _namaz_, prayers. Perhaps it was because she was unclean when she did it; that would nullify each one done. She was a sinner. Having a husband would provide her safety.

"I have been on this earth for twenty years, bleeding for eight. You were married at fifteen, and soon Shelan is no doubt helping Uncle Yusuf with the intentions of meeting that Damascene merchant," Kazhal's eyes rolled. "She told me last night, in fact, that Tamir is coming to Jerusalem, so the clothes made won't be damaged or stolen on the way to Damascus. She also said he has guards. He must be wealthy."

"Shelan always had an eye for finer things," Leyla giggled, but softened shortly after. Her gaze fell to the floor as she thought of her husband. "I only hope Rahim returns from the war, Father too…Anyway, don't force yourself into marriage if you are not ready for it. Remember that Allah has made someone just for you out there. In time, He will reveal this person to you."

Within the next few days, Shelan's intentions of helping Yusuf paid off. Tamir arrived with a few body guards on horseback, dressed in maroon and gold colors, and an all-white _keffiyeh_, a headdress, on his head. Kazhal and Leyla had watched his miniature but proud succession from the younger sister's window as Shelan waited below with Yusuf.

Hala had done a great job of making Shelan look beautiful by lining her eyes with kohl to add some maturity to her young face. She wore a more conservative Kurdish dress, showing no leg or forearm, and under her coin hat was a headscarf tied just under Shelan's chin. She stood beside her uncle, tall and just as proud as the merchant, hoping for the best.

Leyla heard Kazhal swallow hard. "What is it?"

"He is much older than her," The younger sister replied briefly. "I hope Shelan does not let his money blind her."

They watched the old merchant swing a leg around the horse's rear and dismount, greeting Yusuf with a smile. Shelan greeted the man, but he only nodded in her direction, not really glimpsing at her but at the garments in Yusuf's arms. Their sister looked taken aback—by the man's lack of acknowledgement, his age, or his looks, they did not know—but she quickly rebounded and helped Yusuf hold up other garments. It went on for ten minutes when finally, the merchant pointed to the girl, speaking again only to Yusuf and asking to buy her as well.

Technically, Kazhal knew Yusuf could have given away Shelan even if their father and Rahim were alive in the war. Yusuf was the temporary head of the family, so anything he said would go. Right now, he was declining Tamir's offer. Finally, Tamir looks to the girl, and with promises of bountiful wealth and luxury, asks her if she would marry him. At first she shook her head no, saying she was promised to someone else. But Tamir insisted that he was wealthier, and that he did not take no for an answer. At last, Shelan nodded affirmatively, much to the dismay of her on-looking sisters and uncle.

"…Surely this is a joke," groaned Kazhal, who could on shake her head in denial. "She is a fool. He is old and just wants her virginity. There was no interest before that!"

"He has money, Kazhal," Leyla explained, "All of his purchases are probably haphazard and based on whim. She allowed herself to be one of those whims. If this is what she wants, let her have it. If not, she can always initiate a divorce."

Kazhal and Leyla continued to stare out the window, frowning at the newly engaged pair.

* * *

Munzir returned shortly after Tamir's departure to Malik. While an updated map of Syria was being constructed to send to Masyaf, Munzir spied on Tamir for Malik. "He's getting married to one of the Kurdish girls," he deadpanned as he walked through the main room of the Bureau.

"You have to be kidding." Malik was tired of the constant topic of the Kurdish neighbors down the street. Munzir was a Kurd himself, but why was there so much mingling of these girls in the affairs of the Order? Were they spies? Or did Allah do this to him for a reason? "Allah, Allah, Allah. You know best. When is the date of the wedding? The bachelor's party? The henna night? I want to know all these things."

"Why? It isn't like you're attending." Munzir pushed back his hood and raked his fingers through the short, black hair on his head. As he looked around, he noticed that Malik had spent the day cleaning. While solemn, the Bureau looked, smelled, and felt brighter. Dust had been cleared away from the pillows and shelves; the maps were organized behind Malik. Lavender incense replaced the old, stale smell of decay. "Are you planning on attending?"

Malik placed his quill in the inkwell so the ink wouldn't dry on its tip. Eyebrows knitted above a firm frown, he thought about it. The Order had sent him message that Tamir's moves be watched. He was a target, and some novice would assassinate him after Tamir returned to Damascus. Until then, Malik was to notify the Damascene Dai what he was doing and with whom. He enlightened Munzir on the target this morning, so he knew the answer.

* * *

Two would become one surrounded by a sea of witnesses. Under a sheer canopy sat Tamir beside Shelan Shekak, both in Levantine _thobe_. Hala advised against wearing Kurdish wear, instead opting for the traditional costume of the region. White and heavily beaded, the long robe looked beautiful on Shelan, the hijab contrasting starkly with the tiny bit of hair showing above her forehead. Henna covered her hands in beautiful swirls and flowers. She was the perfect bride, but he was the worst groom.

Dressed for the occasion, Tamir was inebriated before he even came to the _nikah_, the part of the ceremony when they would sign the marriage contract. He wore an obnoxious scent on his white thobe, one that made Shelan's nose wrinkle, but she tried to hold her breath and ignore it. The _imam_ spoke a few words about honoring one another as the Prophet did his wives. Yusuf, standing beside Shelan, nervously accepted the proposal again placed before him by the _imam_. "Where are the witnesses?" the _imam_ asked.

Kazhal and Leyla stepped forward, both donning Kurdish dresses and head scarves. They would make up for the lack of one male witness on Shelan's side. The other witness was one of Tamir's men. First he signed, and then passed the quill to Kazhal and Leyla. They both scrawled their names below his. The sisters could not help but feel guilty for signing their sister away to some man she barely knew, but apparently wanted more than anything. They asked for her reasons shortly after the acceptance of betrothal, but she only shrugged and said she wanted a rich man, regardless of what he looked like. Strange, considering she had never said a thing about it before. Kazhal and Leyla always thought of Shelan as a little girl, being the youngest of them all. Perhaps it never crossed their minds that she had her own ambitions and desires, even if she didn't speak about them.

Now that left Kazhal as the only girl not married.

That night, as men swarmed the neighborhood in celebration, Shelan sat on her bed for the very last time. Leyla and Kazhal reclined opposite her, watching as the new bride fidgeted with her thobe. "This was a huge mistake," she mumbled after a long silence. "I thought he would be somewhat handsome, at least young. But he would not take 'no' for an answer. He threatened Uncle Yusuf outside, saying he would destroy his business."

"…I'm sorry, Shelan. It should not have happened like this," Leyla offered Shelan a hand to hold, but the girl refused it. "Perhaps your new husband's own affairs will keep him busy."

"But what about tonight? Any moment I will be taken to his temporary residence in the Rich District and…and…" Pallor overtook Shelan's olive skin. She wailed, "Allah, help me. I don't want a child by this man! Is there something we can do?!"

Kazhal thought of the herbalist that lived down the street, the old yellow man from the East. Perhaps he had something that could be of use for the poor girl. Wordlessly, Kazhal rose to her feet, slipped a black abaya on to accompany her dark hijab, and rushed out the room. Questioning calls followed her as she ran out the house in search of Shelan's last hope—contraception. If there was no heir in the marriage, it could be nullified and he could divorce her. She could return home, albeit shamefully. But the Kurdish believed in remarrying.

Drunken shouts honoring Tamir pierced her ears as she stalked the sidewalk, trying hard to look like a passerby so they would ignore her. Kazhal made it halfway into outskirts of the crowd, using the ends of her scarf to cover her face. Anxieties borne from the incident with the guards pressed into her mind but she shut them out for the time being. She had to do this for Shelan. Besides, there were no guards out on these streets tonight. In addition, the moon was empty and dark tonight; Kazhal would remain a shadow on the streets unless someone noticed her.

With the festivities outside, the herbalist had remained open. Or, at least, he was awake to hear Kazhal's frantic rapping on the door. A man shorter than her welcomed her in, recognizing her as a new addition to the Yusuf's tailor family. "Good evening. Congratulations on your sister's new blessing in life. Is there something you need?" Despite his white hair and many wrinkles, the old Eastern man radiated youth and calm. Something about him also seemed very agreeable, open, and understanding.

Unveiling her face, she explained the marriage crisis. "My sister wants no heirs. Is there something you can give her to help with that?"

"There is—it's in the back, but I have a customer waiting on me. Will you please come in?" The man stepped aside to allow Kazhal through the door.

His shop was small and cluttered with objects of good fortune. A jade statue came up to her knee next to the door; red lanterns hung from the ceilings and tapestries on the walls. Behind the store counter was a library of medicinal herbs from all over the world. Each shelve was organized by the symbols of his place of origin, so only the herbalist understood what was really on each shelf.

He flitted between these shelves to find what the first customer requested. A tall man, the buyer was dressed in dark blue with black, unkempt hair.

This man smelled of incense.

Kazhal's heart nearly stopped beating as she remembered her first visit to the souk. _He'll smell of _bukhoor_—of incense._

After he paid the herbalist, he turned around and gave the girl a glimpse of his face. He appeared to be a stern man, eyebrows forever harshly knitted together on above his dark eyes. His unshaven jawline was square, and his narrow lips were fixed in a grimace as he started to walk past her. Scowl aside, the man seemed remotely handsome, but as he brushed past her, Kazhal could not focus on his face. Instead, the left sleeve pinned to his shoulder hogged her attention, a rather grotesque detail the Domari women neglected to mention in their fortune.

The herbalist then called to the girl, asking if everything was alright. "That man," she began breathlessly when the previous buyer disappeared, "What happened to his arm?!"

"He told me he was discharged a month ago from the war after he lost it—they had to amputate it on the field," the herbalist answered, holding a hand out for money. "Five shekels. Thank you. But yes, to have lived after such an amputation, and with no family, it seems. He now comes here for hashish, so the pain is not as harsh."

A part of her heart went out to him. He had lost his arm, and would now be looked upon as crippled and decrepit. On one hand, she felt the same—it was unusual, outrageous to be a man with one arm. It meant he could not work, and in a way, he was not a man. On the other hand, he was still a person, nonetheless, and the Dom had tied them together in a fortune. The Kurdish always believed in heeding advice.

Kazhal threw her scarf over her shoulder and ran out the door, anxious to meet this man somehow sharing in her destiny. He had not made it far, walking at a relaxed pace toward the mass of men celebrating her sister's wedding. "Wait! Sir, wait!" She called after him, trying to steal his attention. He merged into the throng with the her gaining on him, "Hey! Sir!"

The group swallowed her whole. They shouted blessings at the groom and sang songs in his honor, holding him on their shoulders. The men jostled each other in excitement, knocking Kazhal back and forth. She lost sight of the one-armed man. Mentally, she cursed, concluding he had escaped her.

A hand lightly grabbed hers and pulled her sideways from the masculine sea.

The girl squealed under her chador as the sea released her. Nothing but air and the smell of incense surrounded her. A man cloaked in blue stood beside her, stock still, as if paralyzed by Allah for touching a non-_mahram_, a nonrelative. She grabbed the hem of her scarf and pulled it over her jaw, her eyes looking everywhere but at the man.

"Forgive me _doshizeh_," the man spoke softly, averting his gaze as well. "I did not mean to touch you. You aren't supposed to be out while there is a party like this going on." He was referring to the men celebrating the Tamir's marriage.

Her eyes lifted when she realized he was not speaking Arabic. "You speak Persian, sir?"

"You should go home," he said after clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable. Some of the men in the crowd were starting to notice the girl's presence. And once again, he turned on his heel and started on his way back to the Bureau. He did not look back to see if she had gone her way, only hoped that she would.

"Wait!" she hissed, "Please tell me your name!"

He kept walking.

* * *

Glossary:

To chon ye? Means "How are you?"

Doshizeh is like, lady/miss.

Amu is uncle.

Sorry for not updating in a bit!


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